Me Femme Her Stud

Glossary - For your convenience 

Femme: A traditionally feminine woman.  Mainly used to refer to a feminine lesbian who is attracted to masculine or butch lesbians (“femme” def 1).  It is important to add here that not all femme lesbians are attracted to butch lesbians.

Boi: For lesbians, a boi is a woman who is biologically female, but has a boyish appearance or presentation. A boi may be lesbian identified or s/he may be trans identified. For gay men a boi is a gay man who is boyish or young in appearance or identity.

Stud:A dominant lesbian, usually butch. This is usually the type of dyke that has gender identity disorder (she thinks and wants to be a man). She takes on the very dominant role in relationships, the male role to be exact. She dresses like a man and acts like a man. There is nothing feminine about her. She is sometimes more of a man than some men. In bed she will only want to make love to her women with a strap on. She will not want women to touch her breast, or her vagina, go down on her or provide her with any type of pleasure. She wants to do all the pleasuring. She does not want women to touch her breast etc, because it reminds her that she is a woman.

When people write into Lesbian Love and Advice for advice, they often times feel the need to classify who is talking. "My girlfriend (stud) and myself (femme) went out to eat last night." or "I want to buy my girlfriend (femme) a gift that means a lot (I'm a stud) but am having a hard time...."  Sometimes even, "We got into a massive fight last night. My girlfriend (stud) said something that I felt was inappropriate. I'm a femme."  Sometimes it's not enough to clarify the roles in the relationship. Sometimes members want to solicit advice only from femmes or studs on the page. "Femmes -- what do you think..." and "Studs -- you know what I mean" posts are quite popular.

 Labels can be misleading. You can't tell everything you need to know from a label. And sometimes, the person wearing the label has a different interpretation of said label than you do. Labels don't mean that we can automatically assume what another person's experience or opinion is. "Oh... I see. You're a FEMME. Well then, here's your advice. I thought you were a boi. If you were a boi I would have given you this bit of advice." Smh. Really hard.

I'm tired of labels being some sort of cheat sheet we use to understand people more readily. I would be better served as a giver of advice if someone were to tell me what type of family their woman grew up in, what relationships they both had currently been involved in, what habits and idiosyncrasies each of them had, etc.  A label does not tell you all there is to know about a person, nor does it give you any road map into how to best solve whatever issue the person is experiencing. It's ridiculous to assume otherwise.

I heard once that someone felt labels were important and compared it to shopping for cereal at the local supermarket. So -- Customer A likes fruity pebbles, and looks for the label that says Fruity Pebbles. They don't like shredded wheat. Shredded wheat might be good for someone else, but it's just not doing it for customer A. See? The label helps, because Customer A is not going to go home with the wrong cereal! Yeah. Ok. But this is the thing: sometimes food gets mislabeled. And sometimes manufacturers start putting shit into your fruity pebbles that wasn't there before. And sometimes there's equally great fruity pebbles that the store makes that are less expensive, more convenient -- hell, sometimes the "alternative" even tastes better. Sometimes labels fall off.

Slapping the label of "femme" or "boi" doesn't mean it's a femme or a boi anymore than putting lipstick on your dog makes it a covergirl spokesperson. And the characteristics of a boi doesn't mean that my girlfriend is going to follow the criteria of a boi to the letter anymore than my "label" is going to dictate how I act.

Arg.

I guess what I'm saying is:

Let labels be a starting point to your conversation -- not the ending where you can make assumptions and then seek generic type answers. Your girlfriend has her own personalities and her own gifts and shortcomings. Seeing her as a person might get you further.

P.S. I know these definitions of these labels are surely going to rub some people the wrong way. I'll talk about them in my blog tomorrow. Yup -- blogging every day in July is about to commence. Why not?  <3

Lens

 

 

It's a beautiful day today. Doused in Cutter Backwoods Insect Repellant, Jay and I made our way to the lake. A storm is coming, but for now it's pleasant -- just the right amount of wind to keep away most bugs -- sweatshirt weather. It would be a great day to fish or cruise around the lake in the pontoon. If I could get going. For now I'm content to take a walk to the lake front, avoiding the holes the turtles dig up in the yard to bury their eggs, only to have skunks later dig them up and dine. It's nature, my father says, but it's still sad, especially when you see turtles crawling steadily to check up on their families later.  

I'm more than happy to sit here, 29 days into my blog every day in June challenge, and watch this woman I've grown to love so much it's painful, with camera in hand, looking through her lens. She'll come back later and we'll check the pictures we've taken, removing 90 percent of the pictures I've taken because, well, my hands shake. But she doesn't mind. Nor does she comment much on my moisturized face leaving it's fingerprint on her Nikon screen. 

This morning I watched her profile. Her eyebrows and the thick lashes she says curl into themselves sometimes. I marvel at how her complexion is smooth without the need for foundation or correctors, how the top of her lip has a slight dip. I tried to take a picture of her profile with my iPhone this morning. It pisses me off that I can't show people what I'm talking about. It's the same madness that happens when I write and can't find the right words to use. I know there is a correct lighting, a suitable setting, the perfect focus and lens that will capture the moment. I just have to find it. 

Oh, but when I do --

Subtleties

subtlety |ˈsətltē|
noun ( pl. -ties)
the quality or state of being subtle : the textural subtlety of Degas.
• a subtle distinction, feature, or argument : the subtleties of English grammar.
ORIGIN Middle English : from Old French soutilte, from Latin subtilitas, from subtilis ‘fine, delicate’ (see subtle ).

This is the second time I've seen Jay in person. Even though we've talked for what would probably add up as years, seeing her in person -- up close and personal -- is a new experience. I'm trying not to stare as I know that gets on her nerves (ok, it doesn't get on her nerves but I can't imagine it's comfortable when your girl keeps staring at you...) and she feels that I'm a bit of a stalker when I do, but I have to soak up as much of her as I possibly can, then I can draw on my memory later when we're back on the phone -- our normal mode of communication.

When she says "What?" I'll picture the tilt of her head -- slight in moment but loud in meaning. I'll picture the little shrug she does and the smile she has on her face when she does it -- usually when she makes a point.

There are little subtleties of her that I love.

Last night when we were in bed, she curled up behind me. But she did it in this way that's all Jay-- like she knew the spot to curve and bend around me, or where to slip her hand around my waist, the place to rub my thumb. I'm learning to appreciate the way she touches me, or holds my hand and always in her quiet and comfortable way.

I like the way she touches me. 

I'm learning to be a bit more subtle. Learning to relax into the moment a bit more -- take things as they come and not be so quick to rush to conclusions, rush to judgements, or rush away from the moment and just "be." I have a feeling that I will be learning a whole lot about myself in these calmer moments.

How funny that while I'm getting to know all about Jay, I'm getting to know more about myself as well.

It's an exciting and beautiful thing.

The Problem Is...

Intimacy isn't easy for me.

Sex is easy for me, but intimacy isn't. And there is a difference.

I don't have many examples of intimacy in my life. I have the experiences that sound cliche I'm hesitant to share them ... so I won't. Shit happens -- and basically everyone I know experiences some sort of inappropriateness in their life. This isn't to minimize my (or anyone's) experience, by the way. It's just my attempt at moving on from it for the sake of this blog.

Shit happens.

The problem is when the "shit happens" taints the rest of your life's experiences. The problem is when you compare something healthy and meaningful to ... shit.

Unbeknownst to me, this is what I've been doing. I didn't realize it until she asked me if she had hurt my feelings in some way, or done something. Truthfully she hasn't. She didn't.

It really is me.

The problem is... finding someone who wants to do the "right" thing often times reminds you of every single time it was wrong. There's a sort of grieving process that takes place. I don't think you say goodbye to people when you break up, you say goodbye to patterns of expression or patterns of treatment that no longer work for you. When you can do that, saying goodbye to a person isn't that difficult. With the person comes whatever behavior. The behavior no longer works for you, so you can let it go. Easy Peasy.

If only it were.

I'm going to try really hard not to take it out on her. It's not her fault that she's one of the good ones. I'm one of the good ones for her, too.

We definitely deserve each other.

I Know How This Turns Out.

When I was just four years old, I was baptized (by my father) in a small Lutheran Church in Glyndon, MN. The year was 1971, and white couples adopting little black babies was not at all supported. Not even by the Lutheran Church. My younger by five months brother, Peter, had already been with the family for three years. He was a little bit easier to "handle" being he was only fifty percent negro. Yeah. 1971. When my dark chocolate beautiful self entered the scene, however, the townspeople had a little meeting in that Lutheran Church, and decided that my rainbow coalition family should pack their bags and head on over to another town where that kind of thing was acceptable. "One day those negro children will grow up and want to date, marry, and procreate with our white children - then what will we do?" they thought.

I can't make this type of stuff up.

My mother tells me very little about that time. But these are a few things she tells me:

At the "baby" shower some church folks threw for my mother on the arrival of her four year old bundle of joy, I pulled up my dress to scratch my tummy. One of the older ladies in the congregation gasped and said, "Oh my Goodness. She's black all over."

One day, my mother was fixing lunch for my brothers and I when there was a knock at the door. She went answer it and found someone from the church passing out literature. She handed the pamphlet to my mother then kindly explained that it was research that proved that black people had smaller brains, and therefore were less intelligent, than white people. Just a little FYI for your afternoon, Audrey. Have a nice day.

There are very few things I remember from that time in my life that coincide with the stories of our departure from that town. But I remember the day I saw my father cry for the first time. He was in his home office, on the couch, laying face down, and weeping. I have yet to hear a man weep the way my father did that day.  I can still see it: shoulders shaking, loud bellowing sobs I could see ripple from his feet to the top of his head. It sounded like my father's heart was being torn out of his chest, and that he was powerless to stop it.

I grew up in the Lutheran Church. Yes, it is filled with mostly white Norwegian, German, Swedish people from Minnesota or Iowa (I don't know if this is actually true, but the stereotype often has some small kernel of truth somewhere, right?). But despite the whiteness of the religion, I feel at home in pretty much any Lutheran Church in America. I will walk myself into any ELCA (Evangelical Lutheran Church of America) congregation, pick up a hymnal and sing any song the organist plays. Hell, I probably already played those hymns myself on the organ at my Dad's church in Houglum. I feel like my name: Kari Anderson, gives me a right to be there by birthright, and will often out qualify people who might "look" more Lutheran than I do.

I've gone through it before. I know that people inside a church don't always make the church holy. I know that there are people in church who can read the holy book and never, ever know the true story of love that permeates all of the pages. I know that I can sit inside of a church and hear the most beautiful of voices, and then hear those same voices outside of my families home telling me because of my skin I'm somehow less valuable, less beautiful... just LESS than them.

Some people might ask me why I stay. And I guess it's because I feel I shouldn't be the one to leave. I feel like I have it right. I feel like my family has it right.

In 1985, my mother invited two gay men to attend services at the church my father was serving as Pastor. On a good Sunday, the church maybe had twenty people in it. It was tiny.It was a "welcoming" congregation, however, when those two gay men came into the church... oooooo weee. To hear the people talk. My mother and father stood firm. They challenged many of the passages people had misinterpreted, spoke up and history repeated itself. They (my mother and father) were asked to leave.

So imagine my eye roll when my mother told me that 30+ years later, their church they are now attending had a vote on if the church should perform gay marriages. Did I mention this church is in Minnesota? According to the law, same sex weddings are legal, however, it's up to each church to determine whether or not they will perform the ceremony. "Your kind can come and worship here, Missy, but we're gonna have to ask you and your woman to not declare your love so loudly as to be married in this here facility. Thank you and have a nice day."  Basically.

On Saturday, my Aunt and Uncle are having a "Midsummer Night's Party." In Norway they would celebrate the longest day of summer with drinks and music and celebration. There will be people from the church in town here -- people who have left because of the decision to marry people like Jay and I, who will also be attending. My mom and dad will be here (they own the house...) and well, I've already told their story. I am planning on playing nice. But I'm not going to be invisible. My color, my identity, the people I love, are beautiful.

I've seen this movie before. I know how this turns out.

Making Wood Talk

 I suppose I've always been somewhat of a Daddy's girl. When I was little, I used to travel with my father when he would do his gigs: little mother/daughter banquet shows at local churches. Soren (his dummy), my father and I would often travel up to 60 miles (in the snow -- up hill, both ways) to attend these banquets. I pretty much had his whole program down pat, and around seven years old, I became his biggest fan. I knew all the songs he would sing by heart. Knew all of his jokes, and sometimes would ruin the punchline by screaming it out before he or Soren had a chance. While other children might be a bit frightened by Soren (my dad was a pretty awesome ventriloquist), I was fearless. I loved my other brother. I would sometimes speak directly to him like he was speaking and not my father whose lips barely moved. Hell, Soren even played the trumpet.

My father could have been famous.

My father built our very first lake home. At first we would just stay every other week or so during the summers since my father was a full time pastor at a church an hour away. But during vacations, usually around this time of the year, we would escape. I can't even describe our other home there on the lake. It was full of decks and exposed wood and a fireplace covered in rock with pieces of mica the kids would peel off layer by layer.  I loved that house, spiders and all. After we moved to the lake all year round, my father started building houses for other people and preaching less. Instead of making Soren talk, he made homes ... carved into wood and positioned beams to create lake homes for other lucky families. It was uncommon to travel to any friend's homes and not see some of my father's work. There was always a hardwood floor he had installed, cabinets he had created and hung, bathrooms he had refinished, log homes he had pieced together.

And then he got older.

I suppose why I'm my father's daughter is that I love to create. Sometimes I sit down in front of the computer to write these little blogs every day, and I just see a blank screen staring at me. And then, the words start to come. Today it started with the table at which I sit (working on not ending my sentences with prepositions ... did that work?)  My father built this table. He's sticking to smaller projects now, although this table weighs at least five hundred pounds. There are fourteen chairs around this table -- a few are keeping the corners of the room comfortable. He found the chairs at garage sales throughout Minnesota, brought them home, stripped them, sanded and stained them all the same honey brown color of the table. They all look related, with slight variances and personalities and stories. He carved ladyslippers and sunflowers and these Norwegian type floral design thingees he learned how to do a few summers ago into the sides of the table. Every now and then I look down to trace a few curves and dips. It's like candy braille for my fingers.

My father has made wood talk all his life. He can pick up a piece of wood, hold it to his ear, and find out what it wants to be. Once he hears their story, he will get lost for hours breathing life into it, making it speak again.

So here I am -- listening. Writing my words onto "paper" and breathing life into them.

Just like my father taught me.

Meet the Parents -- (Behind the Scenes)

My parents were married on August 9, 1959. They are still together -- much to our (their children's) surprise. My parent's argue like .. well.. like an old married couple.

As a child, the way they fought used to worry me. My best friend and I would plot who we would spend time with should our parent's divorce. No idea why we thought the fate of my parents would affect the fate of her parents marital bliss, but ...

Now that I'm older, I see my parent's arguments as slightly entertaining and only occasionally disturbing. My mother has always had a propensity towards nagging. It comes from having a mate who is very outgoing and slightly attention deficit disordered; She's often left to handle things while he goes off and "plays." When he does finally get inside, she has lists of things for him to do -- often carried over from uh ... I'd say 1959. Lol. She nags, he shuts down. She nags some more. Then my dad will yell like he just heard the news. It's a crazy routine, but somehow they have adapted to it and I think, grown fond of their peculiar way of communicating.

In between the nagging that sometimes turns into arguments -- "I told you last week that there were ants." "I told you last week I sprayed for them." "Well, there are still ants." "I suppose there are new ants." "Well, isn't the spray suppose to prevent new ants from reappearing?" "Maybe they are strong ants and are immune to the spray. I dunno.' "Do you actually remember spraying, or are you thinking you sprayed?""I told you I sprayed." Etc. Etc. Etc. -- there are moments where I just laugh. And, thankfully, they join in, momentarily jostled from their unbearably tedious routine.

Mom: How long were you planning on driving on empty?
Dad:   We should make it home.
Mom:  You've been driving on empty for several miles now.
Dad:   We should make it home, Aud(rey).
Mom:  So you make it home, what then? You'll still be on empty.
Dad:  Look, there's a gas station.
Mom:  Good decision.

And so they continue.

Dad:  Ruthie is going to be 71 this year!
Mom:  No!  She's younger than us.
Me:  Mama, You're 76 years old. She IS younger than you.
Mom:  Oh. Okay then.

My parents have been married for 55 years. If I were to get married today, I will never be married the amount of time they have, so I have to assume they are doing something right. Maybe my dad checking out every now and again has saved them -- it's like a mini vacation for my mother. I'm not a nagger like my mother, but I will spin stories in my mind over and over again and drive myself to the same aggravated point that my father is driven to on the regular. Jay tunes me out, taking a tip from my father, I can only assume. I hope that I can be as forgiving or as forgetful of the things that are hardest to forgive. And I hope that I can maintain a healthy sense of humor when all else fails.

Leaving ...

...on a jet plane.

Perhaps after I get some rest and get settled in at my parents, I'll write some more. For now, I still have a shower to take, a quick nap to sneak in, and a packing list to go over. Oh, and I need to give a certain someone a wake up call in a few hours as well.

Hope this three hour flight goes by really fast.

And that there isn't much turbulence.

And if there is, that I sleep through it.

And that if I do sleep through it I don't snore.

And that if I do snore whoever is sitting next to me forgives me. 

Touchy Feely

I attended a graduation party tonight for my cousin's boyfriend, Harrison. He's exceptionally bright: math and political science major, graduating at the top of his class at UCLA, ran for city council and probably would have won if he wasn't twelve at the time, etc.

I didn't want to love him as much as I do, but he kind of grows on you after awhile.

But of course, I digress.

At the party tonight, Siri and Harrison were all over each other. They held hands, kissed occasionally, and she rubbed the back of his neck, it's not "all over" each other, but it's really quite romantic and sweet. They are both comfortable with it and it warms my little heart to see it. They are perfect together.

Earlier today I ran across a post on a Lesbian page I frequent and someone was complaining about not getting enough love and affection from their mate. "I told her," the person wrote, "that I need her on top of me all the time. I don't want to cheat, but ... "

But what?

Now, I'm an affectionate type of person. I will give hugs at a moments notice. If I just meet you, and I like you, you're getting a hug. I'd love to hold hands all the time with the person I love if I could. But I'm okay occasionally touching a knee, or just sitting beside a person. I don't translate frequent touches with love and affection. I understand that my way of showing affection is not someone else's way of showing love and affection.

Now, Jay is not a person who is going to rub my cheek in public, hold my hand or kiss me on the lips when we're sitting next to each other at a Mexican Restaurant. She doesn't like Mexican food really, but even if she did, she's not like that. She wasn't raised like that -- having people all touchy/feely and well ... I'm comfortable with her not liking that, because there's other ways that she shows me she loves me and as long as I know that's all that matters.

If I were to give her some type of ultimatum over us not touching each other in public, what the f does that really say about me? I'd have to ask myself: Why do you need for her to show her affection towards you in public, Kari? Really. Why? Is it so that other people know we're together? If I know, what does it matter?  Is it so that other people know she's with me? If I don't trust her, why are we together? A hand on my shoulder or back isn't going to reassure me if I have that much insecurity.

Now my cousin and her boyfriend are not touching on each other to show the world some type of message, they are, in my opinion, just naturally affectionate. Today at the graduation party, everyone wanted to give me a hug when I walked into the restaurant. I had just met 99 percent of them that evening, but they were hugging me like we were old friends. And I was okay with that. But that's my comfort level. That's not Jay's comfort level. And I would be an absolute bitch to not recognize and respect her guidelines.

If we are in private and the woman won't touch me or kiss me or wanna cuddle up to me (as long as my feet don't touch her ass) then we have a problem.

On the other hand, she's not going to be "on top of me" in private either.

I once dated this girl for a minute -- a minute -- who was all about the affection. She wanted to always be touching me and staring at me and telling me how beautiful I was every minute of the day and I swear I could count the number of seconds between each "I really like you" she spoke. At first it was kind of nice, I'm not going to lie. But after 30 minutes of that, it felt desperate. It felt like she wasn't telling me for me, she was saying it because she needed something out of it. Like I was suppose to turn around and give her the same sort of treatment. Just no. There's desperate touches that people can give you. They are like those "likes" on facebook that people frantically give in hopes that one or two might be returned on their statuses. You know they aren't reallllly liking what you have to say, but they are just being needy and wanting something from you.

Last I checked, people were telling the girl to grow up on that post. I don't blame them. Pick your battles. I don't need someone to be on me all the time, I need someone who is going to love me, appreciate me and be happy to see me. I'm old enough and mature enough to realize that people show that in different ways and I need to be open and appreciative of how my partner chooses to show me they love me. Without ultimatums. Without whining.

Well, with minimum whining.

I'm working on that.

The Girlfriend Tag

Found this test on line and figured it would be something fun to do -- We originally did this test together, So I tried to incorporate Jay's answers as well. They will be included in the parenthesis and italicized. 

1. Where and when did you guys meet?  I first met Jay in September/October of 2013 on the LLA page. I was playing the game "Guess My Age" when she submitted her photo. I replied to her message something like, "you're beautiful" and kept it moving. I think she said "thanks" but that was it. Then I saw her around on the page, and she kept me company by answering most of my questions or laughing at most of the questions, not sure which she did more of. And then finally on February 8, 2014, we started to talk and well... we've been talking every since. Basically. 
2. When was your first date?  Our first date was on the 21st of March, 2014. Jay and her grandfather came to Southern California to visit relatives, and the Friday after she arrived, she came to the house to visit me (And your dog Jackson came to greet me at the door)
3. Where was your first date? The first date was at my family's house... basically in front of my entire family. (aunt, uncle, mother, father, Jackson)  
4. When was your first kiss? Who initiated it? She initiated the first kiss on my cheek. I will initiate the first kiss on the lips. (You sure about that? We'll see... )
5. What was your first impression of each other? I didn't think she liked me at all. (I thought you were adorable and you amused me.)
6. What's your favorite memory together? We don't have one yet. Ask me on July 14th. ;) 
7. Who said "I love you" first? Me. I did. I did that. She says "ditto" most of the time. Or she'll say "Have I told you I love you lately?" and then I say, "No, you haven't." and then she says, "Oh. Okay. I'll have to tell you sometime." 
8. What is your favorite thing about the other? Both personality wise and physically? I love that she always makes me laugh even when she's not trying to. She also never promises to do something that she won't/can't do. She's honest as hell. I will never ask her to tell me the truth if I know there's a possibility that my feelings might get hurt (for example: do these pants make my ass look flat?) Physically? She's beautiful. I mean, really. Duh. Those cheekbones, that smile, her dimples... <3 (I don't know -- you amuse me and I like your sense of humor. And the fact that you are sensitive, cuz I'm not. And that you're patient, cuz I'm not. And I like the fact that you see good in people, because I don't. And physically? I think you're cute. And pretty. And you do this little thing, when you're shy -- you bite your finger...)
9. What's her favorite color? I originally thought blue. Then I thought gray (hey, she has a lot of gray in her house) and then I said green...(of all the colors in the world, you said GREEN!) but really it's purple and red.  (Pink - "not that I would wear pink, but I like a splash of pink and accessories..." < said in Kari Valley girl voice)
10. What food does she hate? She doesn't like foods with weird textures like yogurt, tapioca pudding, avocados, mushrooms, boogers (raisins) (Chocolate. She likes strawberry. So if I'm eating Chocolate Chocolate Chip Haagen Daaz she'll say "eeew. I'm not eating that. I want strawberry...")
11. Did you know right away that she was a lesbian? Yup. Right away. (Nope, I assumed she was because she was working the page...)
12. Who wears the pants in the relationship? I do. No, really. I do.  (We're gonna go with that... *as she laughs hysterically)
13. Do you consider yourself a "normal" couple? Pretty normal sometimes but I think we talk way more than other couples (mostly because of the distance but we also have really great communication and I'm obsessed with her so I like to talk to her every spare moment...) I also think we laugh more than "normal" couples. (What is normal? The couples I know that have been together a long time are like us. I think we're a healthy normal couple.)
14. Do you do PDA? I will. (I'm working on it.)
15. Are your parents supportive of the relationship? Yes. My parents love Jay to the point of lunacy, and my auntie and uncle pretty much consider her family already. It's adorable, although I like to complain about it a lot. Karen hasn't met me yet, but she respects the fact that U-haul is not a part of my vocabulary, likes the fact that I'm educated and have a good sense of independence. 
16. What's one thing the other does that you hate? Jay hates loud noises/voices. However, she's always making loud noises of her own -- without warning or provocation. (she doesn't pay attention -- she can't multitask -- multitask my ass.)
17. What is the next thing you are doing together that you are excited for? Vacation in six days! We are going to be spending 11 fun filled days together. Emphasis on fun. ;) (Vacation - to sit in my chair, with my woman next to me, while we get ate up by mosquitoes while drinking alcoholic beverages!) 

There you have it. The Girlfriend Tag. Feel free to copy the questions and answer them with your girlfriend or boyfriend.  
 

Play it Again

I've been playing the piano since I was four years old. When I went to college at the age of eighteen, I thought that I would major in music or become a music therapist. And then I thought I'd be a theater major. And finally, several years later I realized that I liked music too much to make it be part of my career. But writing... writing was something I could do. I thought.

I could have been much better than I am if I had stayed with the piano. But I'm a perfectionist. I enjoy notes coming together and I love the feeling when my fingers know what they are doing and I'm not even thinking about it. I hate practicing. Hate the process of mess before the feeling of things coming together. I hate practicing so much that I barely remember the journey from when my Bach Inventions were crap to when my inventions became impressive -- as if by magic. But it wasn't magic.

Practicing the piano takes extreme patience and stick-to-it-ness. I would practice measures over and over again, like I was burning the pattern into my fingertips. Suddenly, after maybe the eleventh hundred time, I would get it.

And never forget it.

Repetition imprints passages into your brain when you're a pianist. I could sit down at any piano right now and play Invention #8 and never have recalled the exact moment when I memorized it. As long as my fingers are on the right keys, I can get through the piece. As long as my third finger is on the a during that passage, I will find my way home. If it's any other finger, I will struggle, panic, stop and give up. Being precise matters when you're playing the piano.

I recently started to take piano lessons again. My teacher, a pianist for the LA Opera and an accomplished pianist herself (hello, Julliard school of music!) knows to look ahead in a piece and write in the fingerings, circling where the thumb is suppose to go in red color pencil. She knows if I start "here" I will soon get "there" if I start this way. She even knows how fingers naturally move, so knows what will come easiest. She points out patterns and orders. When she points these things out to me, I am so impressed. I'd wonder how I hadn't been able to see what she had. 

I dunno -- in life we're always told to look at our present and live in the moment, but as a pianist I am not looking ahead at notes that are coming at me, I play each note like it's suspended in the air and when I press down on the ivory I'm "singing" it into existence for other people to hear and feel. Preparing the piece, however, is all about looking forward, spotting patterns, looking for sequences that have been there before and will show up again depending on what type of piece you're playing.

I guess what I'm saying is -- you can really only live in the moment if you know patterns and recognize them so you can relax in the moment and enjoy the music. It's okay to spot patterns in your life, circle the hard times and make notes of how those difficulties will be played. It's necessary. In time your words and actions will fall into a pattern of familiarity. You'll know when you're on the wrong foot, when you've placed your hands in the wrong position and when you need to start over again.

But only after many, many hours of practice.

Having someone who can provide you with insight doesn't hurt either. 

Favorite Things

I remember getting care packages at camp when I was a kid. My parents would send things like stationary and a pencil or maybe some home made cookies. My cabin mates always got the good stuff -- money, candy to share or hoard, a new towel or swim suit and maybe some stamps to send a postcard home.

I was always jealous.

Janelle's care package I received today more than makes up for those lousy care packages my parents once sent.

I got a lot. Like I can't even begin to list all the things I got. And even though I got some pretty marvelous gifts, it's not the gifts that impress me as much as the thought she put into sending them to me. Every where I look is more proof that as much as I talk her ear off, she still manages to hear me without them attached. :) She remembered I love to color, remembered I love journals and lip balms, remembered that I love pens and books and knew my favorite candies. She also threw in the necessary things that I maybe mentioned once or that she had noticed on her own, like the way my phone buzzed when I plug it in to charge (she sent me a new cord) or how I really wanted her in a white button down shirt (she sent me a picture) or that I forgot to charge my phone and would have to call her back later (she bought me two power bank external power tubes for charging iPhones.)

And then there were little surprises like toys and hello kitty diaries and dragon fly lights. Even a night light that changes colors and looks a bit like a snowball.

I'm so ... overwhelmed by how much thought went into this package. I can't wait to look at every item and hear the stories that go along with them.

I think I'll keep her.

I Fought the Law

I'm on my way to work this morning at the crack of dawn, talking to JLS, cruising down my street before I turn onto the main street that will carry me to the freeway, when suddenly I come across a intersection and my Corolla fails to completely clear it. I glance to the side, and notice a person in their car, now giving me an evil eye. The light is red so I can't move anywhere, so I pretend not to notice. And then I saw the police. And then the light turned green. The lights flashed, I pull over and the female officer comes to my window.

"Drivers License, Registration and proof of insurance please," she says.

Yeah. I open my glove compartment, grab my papers hand it to her and then look in my messenger bag that now seems to be the messiest bag ever. Lip gloss, loose change, water bottles... surprised I didn't have a small child in there, too. I can't find my driver's license.

"You don't have a driver's license, Ma'am?"

Shit. I'm Ma'am now. The police woman did look to be about 34,  so I guess I was older, but still. But who was I to complain. Where was my driver's license?

And then I remembered. My driver's license was in my other purse I had brought to the wedding with me. My license was only a 1/4 of a mile away. I wanted to ask her if she could escort me to my home, I would gladly show her I was licensed when she asked me for my date of birth and address, and went back to her car with the flashing lights.

I imagined all my neighbors driving by me on the side of the road. I always thought people who were pulled over were dealing or escaped convicts, and I suddenly felt the urge to proclaim my innocence to motorist who were passing by.

"Have you found your license yet?" she asked again.

It was then that I noticed that Janelle was still on the phone, and I touched my phone and clicked on the red receiver button, hanging up on her. I'd have to call her back. She'd understand.

"I think what we're doing is more important than your phone right now, don't you think?" she asked with much attitude.

"I was just hanging up my girlfriend she was still on the phone," I explained, as tears started to spring to my eyes. I wasn't being disrespectful, I just didn't want my girlfriend to hear me being carted off to jail for blocking an intersection. We've been getting closer, but I was sure this criminal activity wouldn't be good for our relationship.

I could see her start to soften. She sighed, walked back to her car, then returned to my car in a few short moments later, holding out a ticket for me to sign. "You'll have until August fifteenth," she explained, "and I'm giving you a warning on your license. I'm sorry I have to give you a ticket, it's just that we've been getting a lot of complaints about that intersection..."

"Yeah, I know," I said. "I understand." I didn't. 

"Drive Safe, Ms. Anderson. Have a good rest of the day."

I guess I'll never know if it was my mentioning Janelle in the moment of panic that softened up the officer or not. I did have that equality symbol on my bumper, too. All I know is that I probably have a $200 ticket to pay and that now I'm desperately afraid of intersections.

And female police officers.

The Way He Looked at Her

When the bride walked down the aisle yesterday afternoon, most of the wedding party watched her. My view was blocked by the groom's family (they all wore hats -- they are British) so I watched the groom's face.

First there was the look he had when he knew she was going to be walking towards him but she hadn't yet appeared. Then there was the look he gave when she finally came into view. His eyebrows lifted and this smile of such excitement came on his face it was heart-warming beautiful. And then as she kept getting closer and closer, his smile of excitement turned to tenderness. He was so proud, shoulders back and head up with a slight thrust of his chin. And then there it was... one of the moments I always look for on a groom's face: adoration.

Weddings only slightly amuse me for the first few minutes. I'm from a church family, so weddings can last longer than the reception sometimes, but in this case the wedding lasted about as long as someone could read the Love chapter in Corinthians and the Pastor to say "Do you?" It took longer for the wedding party to find their places in the outside "church" area where Erin and Paul took their vows, than the entire service. I was impressed. Free bar -- also an ingredient for a good time. Great appetizers sealed the deal. I loved this wedding and everyone who attended, especially the lady who decided to sit next to me and talk about her lesbian sister (am I wearing a sign?) who was bipolar and also had received her degree in English and was a writer. By dinner time (buffet style with much much better food,) I was thinking I might stick around longer than expected.

But then the DJ appeared. I tried to work with him, but it was difficult. The only thing I can congratulate him about was the fact he didn't play the chicken song dance. A crowd pleaser, but only after several trips to the open bar. Several hundred. The music, in a nutshell sucked. No one danced except my auntie and uncle who also attended. My auntie and uncle dancing is ... interesting. They are all hands raised above their head, jumping up and down, awkward robot moves, and swing style dancing to Sweet Home Alabama type dancing. Funny to watch, maybe, but dangerous and embarrassing to dance near.

But the way the groom looked at the bride (her dress was fabulous, too, and she looked stunning,) was probably the highlight of my evening. I didn't think about whether or not someone would look at me like that, I'm not that much of a sap (and maybe it's because I know the answer, so attending a wedding when you have a girlfriend, even when she's not with you, isn't as depressing for me as attending a wedding wondering when your time is going to come.) It's that when you see your friend getting married, you hope her soon to be spouse realizes just how lucky he is. You hope he's sitting there wondering what he could have possibly done to deserve someone as wonderful as her. You hope he always looks at her in that expectant, eager, excited and tender way.

Not So Sweet Little Lies

I can talk endlessly about lies. It's gotten to be a pastime for me: picking up on lies and finding lies in every day conversations. I think I may be able to feel them. I get a slight shiver up my spine and then I just get pissed off. Nothing makes me angrier than people attempting to "pull one over on me." When a person lies, they are assuming that you are too stupid to bust them. That's one of the biggest insults to me.

I hear lies all the time on Lesbian Love and Advice. Here are some of my favorites:

1. It's not you, it's me.  What does this statement even mean? Of course it's "me" (or in this case you.) If you were the girl she needed you to be (or wanted you to be), then she would be able to open up or be vulnerable or whatever it is. So the fact that she is unable to, means that she sees a flaw in you and that flaw is what is preventing her from continuing the relationship. Now, of course I'm going to tell a person who has heard this lame ass excuse that they are not to blame. I don't believe in changing for another person (more on that later) but the fact remains, this bullshit statement is a lie. She doesn't even believe it's true, it's just a way of getting out of telling you what she finds lacking in your person. 
2. I am not ready for anything serious right now.  What this means is "I just want to fuck who I want to without any accountability." Or it could mean that she does not want to have a relationship with you personally, but is more than willing to have a relationship with someone else with qualities she desires. Trust me, I may "think" I'm not ready for anything serious with one person, but then one day someone comes along with every quality I have desired and now my "readiness" is no longer an issue. That degree I was always putting off? Suddenly I'm enrolled in classes. My new fitness goals? I'm now hitting the gym and have returned to weight watchers. My commitment issues? I'm as loyal as they come. You get the picture: she is not ready for anything serious right now WITH YOU. Realize that and move on. 
3. I just can not do a long distance relationship.  While this might be true for several people and not directly a "lie" per se, what one needs to ask is why a person can't do a long distance relationship, because anyone can do one, most people just don't want to. They don't want to deal with the distance and the cost and the lack of physical intimacies or the trust issues or whatever. But again, they will in a heartbeat if you are worth it to them, believe that. Janelle has told me several times that she never wanted a long distance relationship before. She had million alphabetized reasons why she didn't want one. But now look at us: long distancing away and blissfully happy about it. I didn't change her mind. She changed hers when she assessed the risk and determined that it was worth it. So if someone says they can't, understand they can, they just won't with you.   
4. I don't want to ruin our friendship.  I saved the best for last. I call bullshit on this one too because this is the thing: If you are with someone intimately you are still their friend. You haven't given up anything. It's only if you break up that you risk losing the friendship. So if you are already assessing whether or not the relationship will work and utter those famous words ("I don't want to ruin our friendship",) you have already determined that that relationship will not succeed or the chances of the relationship succeeding is not in your favor. Saying "We're not going to stay together long and it's not worth potentially ruining our friendship" sounds awful though, so we stick to "I don't want to ruin our friendship."

So, there you have it: my four biggest lies that I hear all the time from members on Lesbian Love and Advice and friends of mine. Hell, I've even used a few of these lies myself. It's not intentional, it's automatic, these excuses, but they are still untruths.  I don't mean to burst anyone's bubble or ruin anyone's game, I just think that truth gives us the opportunity to move on and stop wasting our time with certain individuals. When people hear these types of lies, the tendency is to keep hearts open and possibilities still on the horizon. You miss out on meeting a person who is really right for you. You miss out on being with someone who knows they have a future with you and there ain't nothin' sweet about that.

Think about it.

I'm not checking you out in the locker room.

This is a public service announcement to every straight woman I know from pretty much every gay (queer would just encompass us all, why can't we just say queer and be done with it? Next blog...)woman I know:

We do not want to fuck you. 

Usually.

Let me break this down for you, and I use "you" lightly. You know what "they" say -- if the shoe fits...

Women are attractive to me. I appreciate women for all different kinds of reasons. I'm one of those women who doesn't really even have a type because at any given moment "you" might do something that either turns me on incredibly or pisses me off tremendously rendering you undesirable and icky.

Let me back it up.

It seems that whenever I make the general announcement that I'm a lesbian, women, who are my friends, who have been perfectly comfortable with me previously, start acting funny around me. Any time I bring up a gay issue -- hell, any time I mention the weather almost, they are right there telling me how absolutely heterosexual they are. How much they love penis in their mouths and testicles banging against their chins and how they could never live without a nice juicy...you get the picture.  I'm not kidding. I could mention softball and someone close to me would find that too gay to not insert a heterosexual disclosure.

I have a very open and liberal family. Coming out to my family was really quite hilarious. I did it over a meal with my parents who informed me after I got done telling them that I "probably was, but wasn't quite sure, I was gay," that it was my life to do what I wanted, and to please pass the salt. They were not phased at all and the big confrontation that I had spent years preparing completely went to waste (see post on fighting.) My family was a breeze. You know what was the challenge and continues to be a challenge? My straight girlfriends.

All gay women do not want you. Just because you have a vagina, tits, and an ass does not make you automatically my type of woman. Especially if you are involved with someone (male OR female) I am not interested in you. Think about it for a second: just because you love men doesn't mean that all men are attractive to you.  Right?

Stop getting all nervous and agitated when I go into a locker room and you're changing.

If I give you a compliment and say you look nice, don't think I've been fantasizing about licking your coochie -- I'm just giving you a damn compliment. While we're on the subject: if I don't make a pass at you or compliment you, don't be all pouty and sensitive about it. Your attractiveness does not increase by 100 points when a lesbian compliments you. (Your shoes, however, do increase in value should a gay man compliment them. I'm just sayin...)

So -- my darling breeders (that's what my bestie Kenny calls you. It's all love.): Relax. It's going to be okay. If you relax and take it down a notch, we can get back to being the friends we were before you started imagining all the things I do to my girlfriend (or in my case want to do with my girlfriend.) Stop making my relationship (and consequently OUR relationship) all about sex. There is so much more to "us" than what we happen to be doing in bed (which is likely watching Tom & Jerry or arguing about why the socks are on the floor again.) Don't talk about your sex life in front of us if you don't want us to join in the conversation by talking about ours because really, your sex life doesn't really interest me and the same sort of "eeew" you might be experiencing when I talk about how she makes me feel, might be the "eeew" we are sayin when you talk about whether or not to swallow.

I'm just sayin.

Hang Ups

About three years ago, I started a book. I wasn't sure what it was going to be about, except that there was a little white dog involved, and a single woman looking for something out of the ordinary. She didn't have a name at first, but as I began writing a story formed.

For people who haven't written a book or poem or story before, this next part is going to sound crazy. I didn't know what book I was going to write, but I have several instances where I was writing and there would be a knock on my character's door, and I wouldn't know what was on the other side until my character opened the door.

I'm not insane.

There was another part of the book where my main character is at work, and suddenly this man appears and I have to keep writing until another character introduces him. I didn't know what his name was until the character spoke it into existance.

I repeat: I'm not insane.

This book started to write itself just a few chapters in. There were times when I would try to reel it back in, to demonstrate my control of the story and that's when things would start to fall apart. I literally felt at times that I, the author of this book, was a mere vehicle to put some character's stories on the page. They would speak to me in frantic whispers in the middle of the night and continue pestering me until I wrote it down the next day.

If you write, you understand that these characters take on a life of their own. But at the end you know them. You've named them sometimes and you've grown to appreciate their triumphs and epic fails. When you finish the book you release it onto the world much like a birth mother might release her biological child to adoptive parents. You know you have no more control of its destiny. You hope that the reader (parent) cares for your book (child) the way you have cared for it. You wonder if the reader will sit back and sign when it reads about the first kiss. You anticipate the reader's discovery of the dream in chapter fourteen or hope s/he gets the nuance of your words in that final scene. If a person is lucky enough to get that very first draft, you wonder if s/he knows what a precious, precious gift they have. And, if you no longer speak to the person who holds that child of yours, you secretly wish for it back. You can never trust someone with a your child if you can not trust that person with your own heart or soul.

My book is a big deal. It's my very first. It's not my last, as Janelle reminded me this evening. "You're going to write many, many books," she reminded me, and I know she is absolutely right. "If you cry whenever you write a book, you're gonna flood a river." She's right about that, too.

I'm just sad that this part is over. It was the first time I dared to let anyone read my entire book. Now that I have it back, I'm afraid of touching it. There's so much to fix, so much to correct, and then there will come the day when I have to release it again. Forever this time.

There will come a day when I hang up on this chapter of my life and start another book. I don't know if I have the strength to write another.

And I don't know if I have the strength not to.

Annie, Jack and Payne.

So, Speed came on the television this afternoon and I couldn't help but watch. Yes, I know that Keanu Reeves can not act. Worth a damn, (Thank you JLS for your contribution to yet another one of my blogs) but I think the story line and the psychology surrounding the plot is brilliant.

Here we have this man, Howard Payne (hardy har har! Get it... Payne), played exquisitely well by Dennis Hopper, who loves bombs. He loves destruction. Yes, he's a sociopath. Yes, he is planning on killing many people just for giggles. But he has an eye for truth, and knows exactly what strings to pull in order to get the kind of reaction from others that validates his existence.  And then there's Can't Really Act But I Look Good On Screen Keanu Reeves who is playing officer Jack Traven who is attempting to stop him.  He's sure he can outsmart the terrorist, puts himself on the bus to be the savior, and tries his damnedest to stay a step ahead of Payne.  Oh, and Sandra Bullock plays Annie, a passenger on a bus just trying to get somewhere but later recruited as bus driver when the original driver is accidentally killed by a criminal. She is an unlikely hero, a born protector, someone we can trust. A someone who is an ordinary person who does an extraordinary thing.

What I find delightful about this movie is found in this quote. Yes, it's said by a maniacal, sociopath, lunatic terrorist, but it's true and can be applied to my life so I'm including it here.

A bomb is made to explode. That's its meaning. Its purpose.

How brilliant is that line?

There are so many times when I expect things to go a specific way, but the signs are there that assure me that it's not about to happen. I tend to ignore the little voice inside of me that says that a person is a bomb. They are made to explode. There is no purpose that they could possibly carry in my life (just mine -- they may be suitable in another person's life...) except to bring me a fair amount of discomfort and pain. For me to be upset when they fulfill that job requirement is about as silly as me being angry at a bomb that explodes. That's its meaning. Its purpose.

So I'm praying for a bit of discernment. I need help in understanding when I'm destructive and an unneeded element in a person's life,  as much as I need to know when another person is that for me. But there's also the  part of me that is all intellect and playing to win a game -- the mastermind that thinks I can outwit evil and sometimes surprises myself when I succeed. At least until the devil rears its ugly head again.  And then there's the ordinary me -- the girl that just wants to get somewhere and ends up doing something extraordinary. 


Yup.  I suspect that there's a little bit of Annie, Jack and Payne in all of us. 

And In This Corner ...

We don't fight.


Wait. We have disagreements. Sometimes I say "bye" or "ttyl" and really I mean "I'm just done right now, you're making me angry." and she says something like "you're amusing me right now" and she means "you're amusing me right now." Really. That's what she means.

 I fight like I'm going to war. I have a list of grievances, like ammunition, rifles, and I'm even dressed in camouflage. I'm marching into battle like I mean business. I've already figured out what she's going to say and have three comebacks prepared. More than that, I've already figured out how I'm going to tell my parents (because they love her) and how I'm going to defend myself when my auntie and uncle ask me what the hell happened. But she hasn't even dressed for combat. She doesn't bring with her any bullets or nerve gas. She just brings her.

I tell her what's going on, heart pounding, and my face heating up. I reach over to run my fingers up and down the chamber of my pistol (do pistol's have chambers?) and I'm rehearsing my next line when suddenly she says something like:

"I'm frustrated and I miss you."

What the ...  I hadn't prepared for that.

Fighting in my world always meant that I was going in with the big guns and only one person was coming back out alive. Fighting was a matter of having a foster home or having a family. Fighting was a matter of loyalty and never, ever had to do with love because people, in my little 4-year-old heart and mind, never stuck around long. If ever. So if I was going to go out in some technicality caused by a fight well then, I was going to go down.

But then she came along and we don't fight like that. Finally there is someone who understands that fighting really is fighting to be close to the person. Fighting for clarification. Fighting to stay close. Fighting isn't about pushing the other person down enough times that they can't get back up to hurt you. Fighting isn't about you or me it's about we.

So, we don't fight.

We have our moments when one or both of us are tired. And one or both of us can't easily be tousled out of disagreement or a bad mood. We have our moments that last mere moments before I eventually ask if we're having our first fight, and she, laughing, insists that we are not.


I think we've just redefined the word. Neither of us are perfect, and I'm sure there are several times I've gotten on her nerves. I'm a bit spoiled, and so is she (and I am not responsible for that!) I don't always act my age, and sometimes I get too loud in her ear. She has some issues with road rage, and even though she says she's listening to me, I suspect she just knows when to pipe in with something and then go back to letting me spew out boring details of my day to day life.

Or it's probably that, with boxing gloves on and the bell about to ring, she knows exactly what to say to make me laugh, can push me against the ropes, tilt her head to the side or shrug that shrug she always does, and disarm me.

Just like that. Ding, ding, ding.

In My Day...

I'm using my blog today as a time out. I can feel when I need one, I start to get emotional and fired up and then eventually I call someone and vent for a few hours. To spare this person from my endless ranting, I've placed myself in blogger time out.

Deep breath.

Back in my day, we didn't have facebook to solve our problems. We couldn't post things on our walls that were really meant for other people, hoping they would get the hint and change in some way with out us ever having to say anything. We didn't convince ourselves that a bunch of strangers could settle our disagreements that we had with friends, family or our lovers. We didn't give a flying you know what what this person said about so and so unless that person was directly related to the person and could have some sort of influence on their behavior.

Back in my day, we didn't reward people for shit that they were suppose to do. We had chores. These chores had to be done before we got to do fun stuff. We got allowance that was in no way shape or form fair -- it was like a tease of a lesson: Here is .50 (yes, that's fifty cents!) as a token of what will happen when you get older. You will get paid for doing a job, and you will then have to use that money you have earned to buy things that you need. But since you are a child, and have food, shelter and clothing-- and since I'm a parent and am paying for gas, vacations, and your education as well, here is a token on what real life will sort of be like. Yes, we could get a lot for that .50 -- stuff was dirt cheap back then. Candy was almost ten cents (if not a nickle) and penny candy still existed. You know what we did if we wanted more money? We got a job. Yeah. We got a job. My brother had a paper route he worked every single day on his bike -- even in the winter!, and I babysat. I was eight or nine and I was taking care of toddlers and changing their diapers. Yes, I know times have changed, but I'm just saying if the kids today asked my parents for money for picking up their rooms they would have a hard time sitting that week because their feelings and behind would have taken a bit of a beating.

Back in my day, there was one way of dealing with bullies. And generally speaking, it worked. I have beef with my parents for placing me into situations where I could have used their assistance. That's another blog, but generally speaking, my parents were right in helping me deal with my own problems by first telling me to deal with them. It was not their job to insist that my childhood was the happiest childhood ever. They didn't introduce unnecessary pain, but they didn't protect me from every possible bump and bruise, either. If there was a problem, I would first need to go to the person directly (not make a post about them on facebook, not tweet pics of them in compromising situations, not tell so and so to tell them, etc. etc.) I was instructed to wipe my tears, and go to the person and tell them I didn't like being called that bad N word name. Or go to the teacher myself and ask if I could get help with an assignment. When I stole candy from the store (just because I could), I was told to go back and tell them I had, and then go and take my punishment (I had to sweep the store and replace the candy I had stole). And something amazing happened to me when I was growing up: I learned to fight my own battles, I learned that my actions had consequences, I learned that life sometimes sucked balls, and I learned that I would survive if Kandace Love didn't invite me to her birthday party. And when I became an adult, I then learned that I would survive if a stranger (yes, a stranger) didn't care for me. And I learned that even though I think it's unfair that the store charges too much for whatever purse, bag, or shirt I want, it's not okay to steal it because I will get in trouble even if I'm not caught, and I was taught that life is not fair and sometimes it's not at all happy, but that everything is relative and nothing is really permanent.

Half the issues I see on line seem to be because of a lack of good old home training. Some of the people are downright spoiled. And I get it. I'm spoiled, too. But I know the world does not take kindly to spoiled people. Some people in my life might think I'm cute when I want what I want, but the general population doesn't care about my "needs." They shouldn't. The world doesn't owe you anything. People aren't here for your entertainment because they have their own needs and families and issues. You are not more important than anyone else. Just because you want what you want when you want it does not mean that you should be given what you want when you want it. You are not the center of MY universe, even though you might like to pretend you are. And I say "you" loosely -- I really don't have anyone in mind with this post. This is generally speaking.

We need to get our shit together. Point blank. There would be a whole lot less drama if we just took a look at what people use to do back in my day.

And I hate having to say that because that's what I heard all the time when I was growing up. But it's true.

So there.

Oh, What a Lonely Boy (or Girl)

 Janelle tells me often that I should stop thinking about facebook as anything but entertainment. People lie, she says. All the time. I know she's right. People aren't who they say they are, she tells me. And I nod. People will say whatever they need to do to be close to you, she reminds me, and I feel it in my heart that she's right.

But then, I tell her, I met you. And I met you, she says to me. But... But nothing, she interrupts. Most people are liars. The sooner you realize that, the better off you will be.

Many, many moons ago, I chatted online at Virtual Places. Picture a chat program where you could go to different pages and hang out with your buddies and chat. The cool part is that your self was represented by these avatars or pictures and you could paint and decorate them. That's how I learned about paint shop pro and websites. The avatars or pictures you used, were never you. Ever. They were always pictures of celebrities you admired or wanted to be. I of course picked the sexiest people to be -- Janet, Naomi, Tyra. Whatever my image of beauty was, that's who I would be in my avatar.  In the most bizarre of circumstances, people would fall in love with you based on your selection (that wasn't you) - and then want to chat. People would also "get married" in pretend marriages and have vows and flowers and venues and even honeymoons. On line. Yes. I was one of them. It was the most silliest things I have ever done in my entire online life. And there were hundreds of thousand of people who did it.

It's ironic (I think) that we have created a world online under the guise of connection, but really what happens is people become more and more disconnected the longer they are online attempting to connect. We have built this world online where you can only share what you are really doing to whomever you want to share it with. You can select permissions and let people only see a glimpse of who you are. You can take pictures, apply filters and cover up scars or crooked teeth if you want to. You can also maintain several profiles and have one for "fun" and one for "work" and "family." I've seen people married and calm on their family profiles but wild and single and living the life on their "fun" profile and no one is the wiser. Catfishing people is so easy it shouldn't even be referred to as a sport. It takes nothing to be brilliant at it, and there's so many levels, anyone could participate. You could be a catfish running around Facebook spouting out truth and light and be sitting in your own world of darkness and no one could ever tell. Or you could be Naomi Campbell and find someone thirsty enough to believe it.

So I know I shouldn't be surprised when I find out that people are lying about their relationships, about their off line lives, about their commitments, about their sexuality, spirituality, philosophies...I shouldn't be surprised when people suddenly become clear to me and I see their fraudulent selves. I shouldn't be disappointed when people fabricate stories to illicit sympathies, or create dramatic situations for themselves so that they can appear to be the hero or voice of reason or even some defendant of a cause.

There are a lot of lonely people in the world. And lonely people will do anything in order not to be.

Water, Water, Everywhere.

I am happiest when I'm near water, but I'm ecstatic when that water is contained within a lake. There is something about being from Minnesota that only my friends who grew up near a lake (or a few steps away from a lake) can understand. It's almost impossible to put it into words.

But today, on an early Saturday morning, I'm going to try.

There's a line in my poem, "Bijou," that reads: "I learned to swim among Ironwood and Maple." It's my favorite line. It makes me think of the trees being witnesses to everything that happened in and on and by the lake. And there was plenty. I learned how to swim among Ironwood and Maple. Learned how to hold my breath, tread water, float, keep my three obnoxious brothers from drowning me. I learned how to sit on the bottom of the lake with my friends and talk without swallowing the entire lake. Learned how to listen through the gurgles to make out silly words. Sometimes we would build forts under the canoe, or swim under the raft by the Iversons, using the headspace of air to spill our deepest secrets. I learned how to dive off of a dock, learned how to avoid leaches and bullhead's whiskers. I learned how to waterski behind a boat whose motor was so small I'm surprised it could even lift us up. I fished and cleaned the fish I caught with worms we would dig up in the moist hills around the lake.

There were days in the summer that my friends and I wouldn't leave the lake even to eat lunch. We'd forget about dinner, choosing to have sandwiches brought to us on the deck so we wouldn't have to change out of our suits. I considered swimming in the lakes, when I was a child, a bath. Never worried about my hair, or skin, or the sun's rays beaming down on us for hours. If you lived on a lake, you had several swimsuits, so you might have a dry one to change into if you were somehow convinced to leave the lake to go to church or to town for some errand or if a storm was rolling through. Putting on a wet swim suit, however, wasn't the worst thing that could happen to you. 

A few years ago, I went home and swam. I woke up in the early morning, put on my swimsuit, ran down the steps of my parent's new home by a lake I was not familiar with, jumped in -- gasping a little bit at the feeling of cool hitting my body all at once, then my insides practically exploding at the feeling of the water curling its way around my outside and insides so perfectly, then immediately laid back and floated -- looked up at the sky and watched the clouds roll by. I didn't notice time passing, or my father coming to the dock to see if I remembered how to swim, or even the fact that water was rushing into my ear canal where it would later nourish and house bacteria giving me one of the worst cases of water ear and inner ear infections I had ever had in my life. In both ears.

But I would do it again. And will in about eighteen days, I imagine. This time with earplugs.

And a prescription of penicillin just in case.

Have Plenty

This is not my nail polish collection. I have mine under my bed, on my wall, in one of those little organizer things on wheels, etc. But to show a smidgen of the magnitude of my problem, I needed to show a big picture of a collection. This picture shows about 700 bottles. I have roughly 400 more polishes than that. The good news is that I have not bought a bottle of nail polish in nearly a year. The bad news is I still want to buy more. I'm slowly going through my polish collection because there is no way I can ever go through the amount of polish I have. I know that seems rather obvious when looking at a picture like this, but for people who collect things like me, it doesn't matter. You can never get enough.

Without going too deep into the psychology of my issues, let me just skip to the bottom line and say: I have a problem. I believe it can be traced back to when I was four years old. There I was, freshly adopted, a little black girl in a town of about four hundred people (not kidding) and I started to have dreams. At first the tights dream was cute. In it I would wake up (in my dream) and wander over to my dresser, open up the top drawer, and a rainbow of tights would fly out at me. I was so excited because my mother only allowed me to have one pair of white tights and one pair of black tights. Before I get on the mom kick, though, let me say that it's not my mother's fault. We didn't have the money for extravagances. I didn't need a rainbow of tights, I just wanted it. I wanted to know that no matter what I wore, I would always have a pair to match. It was the feeling of fulfillment -- of having everything that I wanted. More than I wanted-- having plenty.

So I have brought this bit of neurosis to my adult life and I still collect things. I want more than anyone else. It's not exactly greed, because I share, but only if I know I won't run out. Never mind -- it is greed. I have to have extra, plenty, an over abundance.

I watched Catfish the other day.  It's my guilty pleasure, and I have a pretty good idea of what makes people pretend and lie and scheme in order to have more. It all gets traced to the same thing: a lack of something in one area makes an almost unbearable need to drown another area to a breaking point of indulgence. Silence and neglect from your parents creates a deficit that you feel you need to fulfill by getting love and caring from a stranger. It never will be enough though. I know that a catfish will never stop at one person -- they need more affection because that one person might not be available. Catfish doesn't only mean you steal pictures and pretend to be someone else -- it also means you steal or lie about affections, afflictions, problems, heartaches, experiences -- anything to get you something more. More love. More attention. More sympathy. More.

Ask me how many red fingernail polishes I have. And I will argue with you, knowing I'm insane. They are a different hue, I'll tell you. I may need that shade for this or for that. And I'll organize my reasoning like I'm a lawyer on a case with naked fingernails. Yeah. I hardly wear it. I just need to have it.

A person who is lacking in one area in their life will always hoard something to make up for that void. The thing that becomes the filler is not important. Before I stumbled on fingernail polish, I collected lipstick. Before that I collected eyeshadows. Before that I collected pens. Journals. Stationary. Cards. Things. All putty. All filler.

So I needed to find in this stuff the hurt that never quite got healed. And I need to fill it with my own knowledge that I will survive. That little kid with the big hurt is going to make it, just like the adult me will take on any obstacle and survive. And then I will be able to let go of the stuff.

And I'll dance from sheer joy and lightness.

What a Girl Wants

 So, what does a girl want, Kari? First, a disclosure:

I know I am not a girl anymore, but I like the name of the song -- what a girl wants. You know, Xtina. Anyway -- please don't go feminist movement on me and tell me you're not a girl  (also a song, by the way!). Also please note that I'm not speaking for every girl. I can only speak for me. But "What this woman wants" doesn't catch you as well as the title I chose. :) 

I often ask the question about what people want on the page Lesbian Love and Advice, and I get the same canned responses. Everyone knows that you don't want games, you don't want a player, you want honesty, you want commitment and love... those things should just be assumed. No one enters a relationship not wanting to be loved. What I'm curious about are the things we don't always ask for, but secretly really need. These are the things that could potentially break up a couple -- leaving the person to write a "Dear LLA" letter about how they "didn't see this coming."

So here is my list of six things I want, but don't always think to ask for, but am always happy when I get.

1. A girl wants attention.  Yes, yes, yes. Attention is good. Real good. I love lots of attention. If you don't have attention to give me, however, I'm more than happy to wait until you are able to give me the attention I so desperately crave. Wanting attention is not a bad thing. A girl saying she wants attention should not cue the valet to get your car so you can make a fast getaway, either. I'm currently dating a woman who works all.the.time. But she gives me a whole lot of attention when she has it to give and that's what counts. Good morning texts. Good night texts. Texts on breaks during work. Phone calls on the way to work. Phone calls on the way home from work. Phone calls before we go to bed. We are probably sickeningly over the top when it comes to attention, but I give her equal amounts. And why? I don't want her to think that I take her for granted. I don't want her to wonder if I'm thinking about her. I want to know I'm on her mind and I want her to know she's on mine. It feels good. I like it. 
2. A girl wants compliments.  Yes, I might not be good at taking a compliment in. I may argue, and tell you you're crazy. But I like being told I'm pretty. I like being told I have pretty lips, or soft skin. I like being told I kiss well. I also like compliments about my writing, or compliments about how sweet I am or how I make you laugh. I love to give compliments because I like for people to know I appreciate and adore them. If I am not showing my appreciation for my partner, then some slut woman might come along and scoop in -- she'll fill my woman's head up with all kinds of compliments she secretly needs to hear from me, and maybe that will fill a void. No, thank you! Back up Sistergirlfriend, I got this. It's not just because I'm worried about someone stealing her that I tell her how beautiful I think she is -- she'd be beautiful even if she was with someone else (not really, but it sounded good)-- I want her to know that I see her beauty in everything that she does and in every way that she is. People need compliments. They are like hugs for your insides. 
3. A girl wants to laugh.  If you can make me laugh, you have won a part of me forever. I love to laugh. If you have a sense of humor (dry with a side of sarcasm) you're in. Laughing is good for you. It makes you healthy-- is proven to reduce stress and lower your blood pressure if it's too high. It's a work out for your heart so it makes you stronger. It also curbs grouchiness and bitchiness. Many, many of my bitchiest moments have been eliminated because of laughter. It's a tool to make me put down my weapon, my suitcase, my argument I think I need. We need to have more fun in our relationships. It's not that serious. It really rarely is. 
4. A girl wants to be shown off.  Now, here we come with the facebook stuff. This is why statuses matter. Disagree if you want, but go ahead now (if you're not with someone) and change your status to "in a relationship" or if you're in a relationship and the name is there, take her name off and just leave it as "in a relationship" and see what happens. Yes, if she knows you are together it shouldn't matter, but ask yourself how she knows you're together. Do you go out at night? Do you introduce her to your friends? Do you know the name of her mama and did you text her for her birthday last week? A girl wants to know that you are proud to be seen with her, and if you are having a facebook romance and she doesn't have the luxury of being on your arm at a party or at a restaurant or at your friend's wedding in a few weeks, then your status is EVERYTHANG. Facebook aside, I like it when she tells me she showed a picture of me to one of her friends, or when she tags me in her posts, or when she comments on a picture and then steals it for her wallet, or whatever else she does that makes me feel that she is proud to be seen with me. 
5. A girl wants you to remember.  "I know you don't like green," I told her today while writing this post. "You remember the most random of things," she replied. And of course she is right. I don't remember well. It's taken me forever to remember her birthday, and I still have to ask her what sign she is, even though I can look it up and she reads our horoscopes out loud practically every day. I blame it on my age, but I think it's probably more a cause of my inattentive ass. Not remembering important things will take a toll on the relationship, eventually. If someone has to repeat things left and right, then they begin to feel that their words are not important to you -- that they are not important to you. So I've taken to writing things down. And when I don't hear something that she says, I try (I'm trying!) to say "can you repeat that, I wasn't paying attention."  It's not fun to admit you're not paying attention, but it beats having her have to repeat things over and over again. On the other side of the coin, I want her to remember everything I tell her (and she does!) so it's only fair that I put in the effort to remember things she says as well. 
6. She wants to feel safe.  I want to feel safe emotionally as well as physically. I don't want my heart broken, so I will look for possible hints of that happening and bail whenever I see the markers. A person's temper, the way they handle conflict, the way they handle their own emotions, the way they are with family and friends -- all of these things will be clues for a woman in how safe they will be with another person. Will you walk on her right side or left?  Will you text while driving or even multitask while driving? Will you use drugs or smoke and drink? Will you let things bottle up and then explode or do you talk about things or walk away until you can? How are you with your money (what little or how much you have?) Do you give to other women the same kinds of things you give to her. (I'll say it again.) Do you give other women the same types of attention, compliments, time, and pieces of you you give to her. All these things fall under the category of "safety." It's human nature to not want to be hurt. If you're not on the side of wanting to protect and eliminate as much hurt from her life as possible, then you can only be on the side of introducing hurt to her. 

There you have it: the six things this girl wants.

What are yours?